Wednesday, November 23, 2011

I wanna go fast

Dear Future Husband,

(Who will either have to slow me down or play constant catch-up to keep up with this chick)

I think I'm moving too fast.

My life right now is an incessant string of meetings, papers, reading material, presentations, e-mails - and that's just taking into consideration the grad school sector. There's this whole other portion of my day I dedicate to serving food to strangers.

No, not in some madonna-esque charity work. For tips. I'm just greedy like that.

Nearly every day, on top of the journals, and lectures and notes and trying to figure out what-the-heck is going on Blackboard (seriously, what is this labyrinth of craziness? I've been a college student for almost six years now, and still am not fluent in Bb language), I put on a bleached and starched white collar, and a bright green tie, and bebop into work with my curly, brunette pony tail leaving my only trace.

I'm usually late, and everyone in my life gets along fine with me so long as they give me a five-minute buffer zone. Sometimes I need seven, but I never need ten. My legs carry me as quickly down the long back hallway to the front of the restaurant as they can; giving the illusion that I am just eager to get to work, rather than I'm rushing to report on time for my shift.

We live in a world that likes to go fast.

The people I serve food like to go fast, too.

Even though most weeks I spend over fifty hours at the restaurant, I'm never not taken aback by its clean and colonial beauty as I trounce through the large wooden swinging door, entering the dining floor. The lights are dim, and each of the tables are set and lined with perfectly creased white table cloths. A tiny tea light at the center of each table illuminates an angelic glow.

It's really quite breath taking.

"Uh, waitress?" A large, white-haired man looks up at me through his wire-rimmed glasses. "We've got a play to get to in forty-five minutes. How long will it take for a beef brisket to cook?"

And just like that, the illusion shatters.

Now, Future Husband*, I may move fast, but I am not in the fast food business. And no matter how much patience I muster when I have tables like this who snap their fingers at me, or who ask me to tell the kitchen they have "some place to be" I can't get over it.

If you're here, in a fine dining restaurant expecting your Kobe Burger to come out as quickly as a patty at Burger King would, you're horribly mistaken.

A mere ten minutes pass, and it begins to get awkward. I can feel the white-haired man with wire rimmed glasses staring at me. He looks at his watch, murmurs something to his wife, and taps his brown loafers on the floor.

He gestures me over to the table.

"Miss, we're really in a hurry, how much longer on our food? This is ridiculous."

Classic, shoot-the-messenger syndrome.

"Sir, I assure you the cooks are working as quickly as they can. Your meal will be out shortly and worth the wait."

The man rolls his eyes, and I watch as a droplet of water slides down the front of his frosted water glass. I wonder if he can see a similar droplet forming at the top of my forehead.

I'm going as fast as I can.

And then it hits me: I am the impatient white-haired man with the wire-rimmed glasses.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I am very much a woman. Not to worry.

But, there are certain things in my life - things like you - that I have been very impatient with. So impatient, in fact, that I was willing to settle for the Burger King version of you.

Does that make sense?

In other words, I was so desperate for the right man to come along, that I was willing to make any man the right man. As you can well imagine, this has gotten me into trouble in the past (more on that later).

All the while I'm whining to my girlfriends, whining in my prayers. "Lord, where IS this man? This is ridiculous. It shouldn't take this long!"

The Lord is saying, "He'll be along shortly, and he'll be worth the wait. I promise."

I need to learn to be patient.

A few minutes later, I see the man's beef brisket appear under the heat lamps near the kitchen. Quickly, I go to the table, and display the food proudly before the gentlemen. He nods, and smiles as he takes a bite of his peach-flavored barbeque brisket.

"Was it worth the wait?" I ask him with a smile.
"Mmmph," says the man between bites (I'm the queen of asking people questions as soon as they take a mouth-full of food). "Compliments to the chef!"

Because the good things, the important things in life are worth waiting for. You, FH, are worth waiting for. Heck, you're worth writing for.